of death;' then gazing for the last time on the
loved rays of the Sun, and invoking him as witness and avenger, she
abandons herself to her doom.

Ah, life of man! when most it prospereth, {1298}
It is but limned in outline; and when brought
To low estate, then doth the sponge, full soaked,
Wipe out the picture with its frequent touch.

[_Passes through the Central Door into Palace._]

_The Chorus_ (_in lyrical rhythm_). It is true good fortune can never be
fended from the visitation of evil, which no strong palace can bar out.
What will it avail Agamemnon to have taken Troy and come in honor home,
if it be really his destiny to pay the penalty of that old deed of
bloodguiltiness? {1313}

(_Here a loud cry is heard from within the Palace._)

The Chorus recognize the voice of the King, and fear the deed is
accomplished. In extreme excitement the Chorus break up, and each
member, one after another, suggests what is to be done; at last they
compose their ranks to learn what has actually occurred. {1342}

_Suddenly, by the machinery of the Roller-stage [Eccyclema], the interior
of the Palace is moved to the front of the Stage, and discovers
Clytaemnestra in blood-stained robes, standing with attendants by the
corpses of Agamemnon and Cassandra, the former lying in a silvered bath
covered with a net._

_Clytaemnestra_, in an elaborate speech, glories in her deed. Deceit was
necessary in dealing with foes: now standing where she did the deed, she
glories in it: glories in the net in which she entangled and rendered him
powerless, in the blows, one, two, three, like a libation, which she
struck, glories in the gush of death-blood which has bespattered her. A
late triumph: he had come home to drain the goblet of curses his old deed
had been long heaping up. After an interruption of astonishment from the
_Foreman_, she repeats: it is the handiwork of my artist hand. After the
_Chorus_ have recovered from their astonishment they (_in a lyrical
burst_) denounce her: her confession is the incense on the Victim's head,
she shall feel the people's strong hate, and have an exile's
doom.--_Clyt._ (_calmly in Blank Verse_): they denounced no such exile
against Agamemnon when he sacrificed her daughter, the first of her
travail pangs. Besides, are they sure they are the stronger? Perchance,
though old, they may yet have to learn.--_Chorus_ (_in a similar lyrical
burst_): she is